Journal

I dipped in his words.

Bathed in his declarations.

Submerged myself in the tale of his love.

His one true love.

It was perfect.

Too perfect.

Every sentence.

Every word.

Every damn syllable.

Perfect.

Until the last word was spoken.

And I drowned in his lies.

And I realized…

That the world was full of perfect things.

And broken, faulty people.

~ ~

I pull the earphones out of my ear and turn to my door where Dad is standing, calling my name. I spent the rest of last night thinking about Josh, and when I awoke, I thought about him some more. So I listened to his interview, over and over until I had his words memorized, and then I became angry. Unjustifiably angry. And when the anger faded, I became sad. Miserable, even. And I had no idea why. So I wrote down my feelings in the stupid journal and stared at my words until they, too, were memorized. Seared into my brain for all of eternity as a reminder that no matter how good he looked, how good he smelled, how good I felt when his eyes were on mine—that I could never go back there. We could never go back there. Because as much as he told me he loved me, that I was everything to him, my mother had said the same things. And I’d spent the past year, three days a week, in some form of therapy trying to force myself to believe that it was not love. It couldn’t be.

“How you doing, sweetheart?” Dad asks.

I nod and smile.

“You working on that article?”

Another nod. Another smile.

“Listen,” he says, stepping forward, his hands in the pockets of his sweats. His eyes—green just like mine—drop to the floor, and I know he’s nervous. It’s the exact way he’d approached me the first few months I’d moved in with him. “That Warden boy is at the door.”

I stand quickly, knowing—praying—he’s wrong, and rush to the door because there’s absolutely no way in hell that Josh is standing outside my house on the morning of a day when he should be competing. Yet here he is, looking as disheveled as I feel. My mouth forms an O as I stop in front of him, half hiding behind the door when he looks up at me. I feel the same way I did when he looked at me last night, exposed, as if he could see all my secrets and hear all my thoughts and sense all my fears.

“Hey,” he says quietly, one hand in the air, the other rubbing the back of his neck.

I close my mouth and square my shoulders, feeling Dad’s presence behind me. He’s here to protect me, and knowing that creates an ache in my chest. Two years ago, I’d laid down in the middle of a basketball court, holding hands with the boy in front of me, a boy who declared that he’d never let anyone hurt me. That I’d never have to be afraid of him. But here I am…

Josh looks over my shoulder. “I’m sorry for coming over unannounced like this—”

“How’d you get my address?” Dad asks, his voice deep, intimidating.

Josh steps back, his demeanor proof he felt the threat in each word. I turn to my dad, pleading with my eyes for him to back off, just enough so I can breathe. So I can sort through the havoc in my head. Dad rolls his eyes. “He could’ve at least brought us coffee.” Then he spins on his heels and walks away.

I look over at Josh, his eyes wide as he points his thumb over his shoulder. “I can go get him a coffee.”

I smile. I can’t help it. Shaking my head, I mouth, “It’s fine,” and step out onto the porch, closing the door behind me. I raise my eyebrows. He rubs the back of his neck again. “Do you—I mean—can we go for a walk, maybe?” He grins the same crooked grin that used to give me butterflies, and I’d be lying to myself if I said it didn’t have the same effect now. “Honestly, Becs, I thought your grams was scary, but she’s got nothing on your dad.”

I laugh, and even though he doesn’t hear it, he sees it.

He sees me.

—Joshua—

I have no idea what I’m doing here, walking side by side next to the girl I’ve spent endless nights dreaming about. But after she left last night, I couldn’t get her out of my head. Not that I expected to. Every moment seemed to replay in my mind, and I questioned everything. Everything. Not just about our pasts or the decisions we made, but even the small things that shouldn’t matter. I examined every word I spoke, every movement I made, and I wondered how it was she could so easily walk away with nothing but a computerized “Thanks for your time,” and leave my sorry ass standing there in a pool of my regrets.